Kay, Guy Gavriel – Sarantine Mosaic 01 – Sailing to Sarantium

One arrived in the Imperial Precinct, Crispin belatedly realized, already aligned in some fashion, even before the first words or genuflec­tions took place. They had told him about the genuflections. The instruc­tions were precise and he’d been made to rehearse them. Against his will, he’d felt his heart beginning to pound, doing so, and that feeling resumed now as he heard the dignitaries of Valerius II’s court on the other side of the magnificent silver doors. There was rising and falling laughter, a lightly murmurous flow of talk. They would be in a good humour after a festival day and a banquet.

He rubbed at his naked chin again. The smoothness was appalling, unsettling. As if a shaven, silk-clad, scented Sarantine courtier were stand­ing in his body, half a world away from home. He felt dislodged from the idea of himself he’d built up over the years.

And that sensation-this imposed change of appearance and identity- probably had much to do with what followed, he later decided.

None of it was planned. He knew that much. He was simply a reck­less, contrary man. His mother had always said so, his wife, his friends. He’d given up trying to deny it long ago. They used to laugh at him when he did, so he’d stopped.

After the protracted wait, watching the blue moon rise across an inte­rior courtyard window, events happened quickly when they did begin.

The silver doors swung open. Crispin and the Chancellor’s represen­tatives turned quickly. Two guardsmen-enormously tall, in gleaming silver tunics-stepped from within the throne room. Crispin caught a glimpse beyond them of movement and colour. There was a drifting fra­grance of perfume: frankincense. He heard music, then that-and the shifting movements-stopped. A man appeared behind the guards, clad in crimson and white, carrying a ceremonial staff. One of the eunuchs nodded to this man, and then looked at Crispin. He smiled-a generous thing to do in that moment and murmured, ‘You look entirely suitable. You are benevolently awaited. Jad be with you.’

Crispin stepped forward hesitantly to stand beside the heraldic figure in the doorway. The man looked over at him indifferently. ‘Martinian of Varena, is it?’ he asked. It really wasn’t planned.

The thought was in his mind even as he spoke that he might die for this. He rubbed his too-smooth chin. ‘No,’ he said, calmly enough. ‘My name is Caius Crispus. Of Varena, though, yes.’

The herald’s startled expression might actually have been comical had the situation been even slightly different. One of the guards shifted slightly beside Crispin, but made no other movement, not even turning his head. ‘Fuck yourself with a sword!’ the herald whispered in the elegant accents of the eastern aristocracy. ‘You think I’m announcing any name other than the one on the list? You do what you want in there.’

And, stepping forward into the room, he thumped once on the floor with his staff. The chattering of the courtiers had already stopped. They’d aligned themselves, waiting, creating a pathway into the room.

‘Martinian of Varena!’ the herald declared, his voice resonant and strong, the name ringing in the domed chamber.

Crispin stepped forward, his head whirling, aware of new scents and a myriad of colours but not really seeing clearly yet. He took the pre­scribed three steps, knelt, lowered his forehead to the floor. Waited, count­ing ten to himself. Rose. Three more steps towards the man sitting on the candlelit shimmer of gold that was a throne. Knelt again, lowered his head again to touch the cool stone mosaics of the floor. Counted, trying to slow his racing heart. Rose. Three more steps, and a third time he knelt and abased himself.

This last time he stayed that way, as instructed, about ten paces from the Imperial throne and the second throne beside it where a woman sat in a dazzle of jewellery. He didn’t look up. He heard a mildly curious murmuring from the assembled courtiers, come from their feast to see a new Rhodian at court. Rhodians were of interest, still. There was a quip, a quicksilver ripple of feminine laughter, then silence.

Into which a papery thin, very clear voice spoke. ‘Be welcome to the Imperial Court of Sarantium, artisan. On behalf of the Glorious Emperor and the Empress Alixana I give you leave to rise, Martinian of Varena.’